


Hanni and the Pumpkin King - Part 2

by thecountessolivia



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Pumpkins, Surreal Silliness, Will the Tiny Pumpkin King, pocket!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-01-31 14:49:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12684072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecountessolivia/pseuds/thecountessolivia
Summary: Hannibal finds a tiny Will living inside his Halloween pumpkin.Sequel toHanni and the Pumpkin King(which ought to be read for this to make any sense whatsoever)





	1. Chapter 1

That night Hannibal was a less than perfect host to those in attendance at his festive dinner party. He was courteous and receptive to courtesy, and he smiled politely at the compliments paid to his culinary skill. But over the chatter of many mouths and the clink of crystal and silverware, Hannibal's thoughts kept drifting to his bedroom, where he'd deposited the carved wooden box before the evening began. Nothing in the world now seemed to interest Hannibal as much as its mysterious contents.

Hannibal's guests departed, nudged out the door a bit earlier than usual through carefully constructed hints and social orchestrations. It was barely midnight when Hannibal retired upstairs and dressed himself for bed. He made no effort to peer inside the box: he was certain that his new-found treasure would not abscond. He did lean in to listen briefly to the small even breaths rising from within. He smiled.

The harvest moon shone crisp and bright through the windows. Hannibal left his curtains open and let the bedroom be bathed in the pale light, so like the complexion of a certain small angry being which had come into Hannibal's life.

Sleep barely had time to claim him when Hannibal was awoken by a soft scratching. This was followed by a series of increasingly agitated knocks. And then:

"Psst. Pssst!"

Hannibal rose and approached the box. He lifted the lid. Will the Pumpkin King sat cross-legged in one corner, having made himself a nest from Hannibal's cashmere scarf. He rubbed at his eyes and glared up at Hannibal.

"Hannibal... whatever your name is. Listen, I had this dream. And— and I need you to get me back. Back to where you got me from."

Hannibal raised an eyebrow. This did not agree with him at all.

"Look, it's just that— they're waiting. It needs to happen soon. Before sunrise. Otherwise I'm screwed."

"In what sense, Will?"

"Dead. Gone."

Hannibal's priorities were shifting fast. The unappealing prospect of finding the Pumpkin King dead with the morning light and Hannibal's curiosity about the nature of whatever awaited them back at the patch were quickly rising to the top of the list.

"All right. I shall take you back."

Will sighed with relief. He'd been picking nervously at the scarf while Hannibal considered the request, no doubt damaging the fine wool beyond repair. Hannibal found himself oddly indulgent of the tiny king's wanton destruction of his possession.

"Thanks," Will muttered and even managed something like a small, twisted semblance of a smile. It seemed to Hannibal that something about existing in this world put Will very ill at ease indeed.

"I must get dressed. I won't be a moment."

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"What time is it?"

Hannibal checked. "It's approaching one in the morning."

There was new urgency in Will's demeanor. He'd been pulling on his boots but now he stopped and his remarkable eyes caught Hannibal's in quick, nervous glances. Moonlight seemed to pour into those eyes and dance there, wild and troubled. Hannibal noted this with a deep sense of what might have been called aesthetic appreciation.

"This is kind of— I need to— I have to be bathed. It's customary, before I depart home for the year. Normally they do it for me, but now there's not gonna be time. You're going to have to do it for me." 

Within that statement, Hannibal much preferred the word _bathed_ to _depart_. Regardless, Hannibal continued to be remarkably willing to make concessions to this tiny, anxious being. 

Color of frustration or embarrassment seemed to tinge Will's fine complexion. "Sorry," he added.

Hannibal wasn't. Whatever ancient ceremony awaited Will back at the pumpkin patch, this would only ensure Hannibal became firmly involved in its proceeding. Beyond that, Hannibal knew he could count on his remarkable skills of improvisation.  

"If that is what you need, Will, I'll gladly help prepare you for your journey. It's the least I can do."

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal got dressed and filled his bathroom sink with warm water. He checked the temperature with his wrist and added in a few drops of lavender oil. After a moment's consideration, he surrounded this hallowed pool with candles and lit them one by one.

Satisfied with having established an atmosphere of mystery and ritual, he returned to the bedroom to collect its living centerpiece. The bather-to-be had shed every stitch of his drab attire in the meantime and was sat with his knees drawn to his chest. He appeared more withdrawn than before, his face cast down and shielded by a halo of dark curls. A shiver coursed in waves through his tiny naked form. Once again Hannibal suppressed the desire to stroke the small troubled head with his fingertip.

"Are you ready, Will?"

Will nodded.

Hannibal carried the box to the bathroom. Once settled on the counter, Will knelt up and peered over the edge. He shook his head at the sight of the sink.

"This isn't right."

"Is this not what you had in mind?"

"That's not how it goes. The stuff they wash me with first isn't clear. It's red. And thick. And smells like—" Will rummaged about the box for the silver and copper thimble which had held the drink Hannibal served him earlier in the evening. He held it up. "—like this. Then they rinse it off with the clear stuff that's in there now."

How strange, Hannibal thought, that this mysterious man was able to communicate his needs yet the common concepts of _blood_ and _water_ were utterly alien to him. And how strange and fortunate, too, that Hannibal was so well-equipped to give the Pumpkin King precisely what he needed.

"I see." Hannibal drained the sink but left the candles burning. "In that case, please try to keep warm while I find what's required. I won't take long."

Hannibal's fridge held a glass tupperware container of circulatory overspill from the recently disposed-of accountant. Hannibal had hoped to combine it with shallots, Shiraz, garlic and thyme into a delicious sauce. But no matter. The world was an ocean of blood and Hannibal needed only to dip in for more.

A gentle heating on the stove and then a transfer of the blood into a crystal carafe and then Hannibal returned upstairs.

In the meantime, Will had clambered from the box and into the sink. There he sat as he had before, curled in on himself. The shivers still racked him, despite the warmth of the candle flames.

"Here we are, Will. This ought to be right. Is there anything else we should prepare before we begin? Do you need music, perhaps?"

"Music?" Will looked up at Hannibal with a scowl. Ah. Another alien concept. "Look, can we just get this over with? I'm seriously running out of time here."

Will stood then, and at last Hannibal could take him in whole. He had expected to find some anomaly or at least a supernatural mark on the tiny body but now saw only a perfectly ordinary yet beautiful male form in miniature. For the first moment, Hannibal wondered if whatever magic had spawned Will also held some spell to make them equals in stature. Perhaps then Hannibal might be able to retain this otherworldly companion. To instruct him in things like water and blood and music and...

"Hey. Hannibal. Come on."

Hannibal looked down into those eyes, where moonbeams had been replaced by dancing flames. He turned off the bathroom light, leaving only the candles. He rolled up his sleeves. He picked up the carafe.

"All right. Let's begin."

In the warm golden circle of light, with only the sound of their unmatched breaths for music, Hannibal tilted the blood-filled carafe slowly above the head of the Pumpkin King. The sanguine cascade came tumbling down from the silver-edged spout.

Will's head fell back. His arms came outstretched, palms held upward, and the blood that fell there streamed thickly down like liquid wings of crimson. Hannibal kept the carafe at a steady tilt, spellbound. The blood smoothed down the Pumpkin King's curls, it painted red rivers on his tiny chest and it coated his thighs until finally pooling at his feet and draining down into oblivion.

When it was done, Will looked to his hands, still dripping wet. He brought them slowly to his face, touched his fingertips to his mouth. His eyes, closed while the downpour fell on him, now looked up at Hannibal once more. He breathed in deeply.

"I dreamt of that smell," he said, low and soft.

Hannibal clutched the empty carafe and stared. He couldn't recall when he'd ever been held so in thrall.


	3. Chapter 3

Once rinsed clean, the Pumpkin King grew quiet and pliant. He did not object to Hannibal drying his small body with the edge of a hand towel. At last Hannibal could brush his fingers over the small head of wet curls. They were soft as a lamb's.

\---

They set out, Will in the safety of the carved mahogany box on the passenger seat. The moon lit their way, a bright beacon through a tunnel of wind-stripped trees. Hannibal's Bentley purred softly along the deserted streets, heading for the outskirts of Baltimore. The pumpkin patch would greet them there with — with what? Not even the strangest Lithuanian folk tales Hannibal had heard as a child, so many moons ago, could offer a clue.

The journey would afford Hannibal the necessary time to discover more of Will's history and thus learn more about whatever magic might keep him in this world, and in Hannibal's company. By now, the Pumpkin King had become far too rare and treasured a find to surrender so readily to some arcane force.

Hannibal looked down at the box. The moon had illuminated Will's fine, small face and he blinked slowly into the silver beams.

"You seemed unsure of your origins when I first found you inside your pumpkin, Will," Hannibal said. "Are they clearer now?"

Will was silent, fixed on the moonlight. Communing, Hannibal thought, with something only he could see. At last, he spoke.

"What happened to my pumpkin?"

"As you know—"

"It's destroyed, isn't it? You... chopped it up and ate it?"

"That is what happens to all pumpkins, Will. They nourish a living creature or decay in a field."

"It's coming back to me now."

Hannibal glanced down again. "What is? Tell me."

"This always happens. It has to happen. My pumpkin rots. Or gets eaten. Then I come out and go back. Every time. When it's cold and dark and that thing—" he pointed ahead, at the bright moon. "is bright and round."

Hannibal had heard many myths and stories in his childhood. There was always a twist, some clever loophole to take advantage of. He wound certainly find it.

"And what do you go back to, Will?"

"I don't know. I can't... I can't remember it. Or I can't imagine it. It's not a place like this. It's not any kind of place."

"Have you considered you mustn't always go back there?"

Will cast a wild, bewildered look up at Hannibal. He drew his knees up to his chest and rocked back and forth.

"No. How..."

"You are the king, are you not? Surely you must have some say in whether you stay or go."

Will was silent again, but Hannibal could sense a rising unease in the tiny body.

"And what of your journey out of your annual pumpkin? Surely you're not always found and cared for, as you were this year."

Will's little red mouth twisted before he managed a reply. "No. I usually escape while it's being eaten or chopped up. I just kind of— stumble around and hide for a few days, until I'm found and taken back. Not like," He frowned and picked at the scarf lining his box. "Not like with you."

"And what is so different about being with me?" Hannibal asked, though he was merely prompting for an answer he already knew. He kept one gloved hand on the steering wheel and touched the other to the edge of the box in the passenger seat. Keeping some distance, but reassuring and protective.

"No one's ever talked to me. Or given me anything to eat or drink," Will muttered. "Or given me something like this." He waved about the box, touched his little hands to the soft wool beneath him.

"I would gladly continue to care for you, Will. If you would show me how."

"You can't," Will said, hands reaching up to clutch and pull at his hair. "It's impossible."

Hannibal made a small noise, modulating his tone towards sympathy. "To struggle like this only to be put back in the place you spoke about," Hannibal replied, "doesn't seem to me like a kingly fate. A slavish one, rather."

"If I don't go back, it all ends," Will said into his hands, rough and almost mechanical.

Hannibal wanted to laugh. Tale as old as time, he thought. Some poor being endures an annual self-sacrfice in order for the cycle of life to continue. He was now more determined than ever to unshackle Will from his fate.

\----

Hannibal stopped the car in the deserted parking lot outside the pumpkin farm. He stepped out into the night air, sharp as knives with a frost that had begun to creep in early this year. Hannibal peered about and breathed in, but saw nothing but stillness and scented only cold and decaying foliage. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for a peculiar sense of emptiness that that hung about everywhere — as if something essential had been sucked out of reality.

Bolt cutters retrieved from the trunk of Hannibal's Bentley made quick work of the rickety gate in the fence that surrounded the patch. It was only after he had nudged the gate open that Hannibal returned to collect the wooden box from the locked safety of his car.

As soon as he stepped cautiously past the gate, a strange hollow drumming reached Hannibal from somewhere in the sprawling field. When he looked down inside the box, Hannibal found the Pumpkin King, still sat cross-legged in his cashmere nest, swaying gently to its rhythm and staring ahead. Through the lifted carved lid of the box, the moonlight cast strange shadows on his body.

"Will," Hannibal whispered down to him, "what can I do?"

"Don't say anything unless I speak to you," Will said quietly. "And— and do everything you can not to get pulled into it."

"Into?"

"It will call to you. If you go to it, it won't be like it is for me. You won't come back." With those words, Will's voice acquired a despondent note. "Actually, you know what, just forget it. Just leave me here and go."

Naturally, this was out of the question. Hannibal placed his hand gently inside the wooden box, closer this time. "Whatever awaits you, Will, I'm sure I can fend for myself. I intend to see this night through, in your company."

In reply, he felt the sudden grip of Will's hands about the tip of his thumb. The palms were damp and warm.

"Besides," Hannibal added, stroking one tiny hand with his forefinger. "I believe you will ask to be set free from your bond. Will you not?"

Again, Will said nothing, but squeezed even more tightly about Hannibal's finger. Slowly and with great reluctance, Hannibal withdrew his hand and slipped it into his coat pocket, and felt for the knife he had stashed there. He began to take measured steps forward, further into the frosty emptiness of the field.

Although the moon still shone brightly above, a strange, new glow soon caught Hannibal's eye. Blurry at first, it grew sharper and more pronounced: Hannibal saw countless balls of orange light shifting across the frozen earth. The drumming noise grew louder, too, and echoed everywhere.

It wasn't long before Hannibal understood the source of the light: thousands of pumpkins had gathered in the middle of the field, and each glowed eerily from within, like uncarved Jack-o-Lanterns. Their vines were tugging them forward, rolling and shunting the glowing orbs to the middle of the patch, there to be arranged into orderly rows. And it was from those orange regiments that the drumming noise arose, as each pumpkin jerked rhythmically and knocked against the one beside it, a steady thud that Hannibal felt somewhere deep in his chest.

Hannibal tried to count the rows of the assembling army when he looked up and saw it.

At the edge of the field, where Hannibal would have expected to see the distant shadowed outlines of fences and trees and, beyond that, roads and the ocassional light of a gas station or a solitary farm house, there was only a void.

The entire horizon had been swallowed up. It wasn't blackness. It wasn't night. The world beyond the glowing pumpkin army simply didn't exist.

The moon hung somewhere far above the void, but didn't touch it with its light.

Hannibal stared ahead. The nothingness sang to him, beckoned him closer, though he heard no sound beyond the knock-drumming of the gourds. Every cell in his body felt the sweet pull of the great hollow.

And he knew that he was looking at the gateway to Will's true home.

He shuddered when he felt a tugging on his sleeve. He looked down. Will was gazing up at him, gravely.

"It's time you put me down."


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal knelt and set the box down on the ground.

The cacophonous, rhythmic thud emitted by the sea of pumpkins ceased at once. Their orderly ranks began to shift and shunt, parting to form a long straight path to the void which had eaten up the horizon. The great black emptiness pulled at Hannibal's muscles and tugged at every synapse in his brain, like gravity itself, until he was forced to take stock of his nerves and wits. Both were holding firm. He reached once more to check for the knife in his pocket, then peered down at Will.

Will was already clambering out of the box. His movements held a sense of urgency and his tiny face when he turned it up to Hannibal had a wild, distant look. Hannibal might have called it uncanny.

"Whatever happens, whatever they say now," he said, gazing up at Hannibal with those moon-bright eyes, "I can't help you."

Whatever that warning meant, Hannibal was certain that the time had not yet come for action. An opportunity would present itself, as it had in the stories of his youth: some obvious flaw that would turn the night in Hannibal's — in Will's — favor. For now, he merely had to wait and see how events would unfold.

As he rose from his knees, Hannibal did notice with some disquiet that the frozen earth had somehow slid backwards beneath him, putting him and Will that much closer to the pumpkin army and the gaping nothingness ahead. He ought to have taken a step back, but then he'd lose sight of Will, who was already striding without hesitation and at a pace towards the edge of the newly formed path. Away from Hannibal.

Hannibal took a step forward instead.

When he reached the first row pumpkins, Will thrust his arms out wide, as he had when Hannibal had bathed him. As if on command, the luminescence inside the thousands of gourds began to convulse steadily, and Hannibal was at once reminded of the lights he'd used in therapy. He shielded his eyes as much as he could whilst still keeping Will in his sights. Something else was afoot: with every throb of the orange light, the pumpkins nearest to Will seemed to swell in size. Was Will growing too? He was still striding forward — slower now, and with small, confident steps — and with his arms still outstretched. The force and power of his gesture was so entrancing, and the pulsing of the light so distracting, as to mar Hannibal's fundamental sense of scale.

Then Will cried out. It was a short, rough phrase thrust into the stillness of night, formed from a language Hannibal was certain did not belong to mankind.

In answer to the cry came a thud. Once. Thud. Twice. Thud. And again, a third time. The tam-tam drums of the pumpkins knocking into each other rang out once more — then all grew quiet. The pulsing orange light stilled and dimmed to a faint flicker.

It was in that faint light that Hannibal saw it, far ahead at the end of the path: a movement in the void.

They slithered out one after another, black and slick like blood in the moonlight. Hannibal counted them: seven shapes, distinct even from afar. Seven hounds.

They came in every size and form, black fur scraggly or smooth, snouts and tails long and short. Their eyes glowed like distant moons and they moved unnaturally, too fluidly, towards Will. Towards Hannibal.

With the hounds' approach the beckoning from the nothingness began to swell. At last, Hannibal recognised it: it was the same desperate hunger he'd known as a newly orphaned child in a frozen forest.

\---

For a moment, Will was still. Then he broke into that sure stride again, setting off to meet the pack slithering towards him. And again, he appeared to grow — or was that just another trick of the eye caused by the flickering light of pumpkins and the increasingly dizzying call of the void? Hannibal couldn't tell. The garb of the Pumpkin King was changing, too, growing looser and slicker and darker until it matched the color of the approaching hounds, until his shabby jacket became a long cloak as black as an oil slick.

Still Hannibal followed, broaching the tunnel-like path flanked by the countless pumpkins. The path seemed to widen with every step he took and Will — Will now appeared to be the height of a small child. And no matter how much Hannibal picked up his pace to match Will's own brisk step, he couldn't get close enough.

It also occurred to him that since Will had left his box, Hannibal had not seen his face.

In the faint flicker of the pumpkin army, the glowing eyes and black shapes of the approaching hounds grew closer and brighter, close enough that Hannibal could tell these were no common canines, for the smallest was as big as a stag.

Will stopped. Hannibal stopped. The seven dogs, still clustered together like in a swirling mass, stopped too, some distance ahead. Fourteen eyes glowed at Hannibal and the song of the void was caught inside them.

The same unnatural language issued from Will: a short stuttered phrase, followed by a reply of a piercing yip from the smallest hound. All seven fell to their front paws and grovelled closer. Will spoke again, and got an answer of growls and howls and hellish rumbling from the entire pack that grated at Hannibal's ears. This went on, back and forth, for some minutes whilst Hannibal grew increasingly impatient. And perhaps, at last, uneasy.

The conference ended, Will turned and took two wide steps towards Hannibal, hands clasped behind his back. The oily black cloak suited him, made his complexion appear all the more moon-kissed. And there was no doubt in Hannibal's mind now that since leaving the confines of his box he'd become as tall as a common man, as tall almost as Hannibal himself. Hannibal was glad for the chance to study every detail of his form in close proximity.

"You said you wanted us to remain together," Will said. "That you wanted to care for me."

Hannibal inclined his head a fraction. "I did."

"We have discussed it." Will nodded back to the dogs, still now as statues of onyx. "Three ways. There are three ways. One of the ways is yours."

Hannibal shifted from foot to foot and held Will's gaze, pleased to have sight of his expression once more, inscrutable and strangely smooth as it was. Now came the part of this remarkable evening where his wit could shine. For here he'd surely find some word play or trickery he could easily pick apart or turn to his gain. He smiled and nodded once more. And kept his hand on the knife in his pocket.

"Let us hear those ways then."

The hounds jerked, in unison, and slid a step closer behind Will. They turned their heads to each other and let out a low disjointed grumble that Hannibal believed held a faint mocking note. Their size seemed to swell further still.

Then Will spoke, clear and silvery and bright.

"I, the Pumpkin King, may remain in this world if the pumpkin from which I came is reassembled and placed back on its vine."

Hannibal frowned. Something in Will's pronouncement cut at him from the inside. For all the years he'd spent searching, no method or calculation had presented itself in the battle against etropy. All paths lead to disorder. The pumpkin would never gather itself back again.

"That is impossible, as you know," he replied, aware of the bile creeping into his voice.

Will nodded slowly. "So it is. The second way, then?"

Hannibal was still frowning. "Please."

"I, the Pumpkin King, may remain in this world if the blood that bathed me tonight is given back to the man from which it came."

Hannibal froze. How could Will and his canine companions know where the blood had come from? He answered nonetheless, voice rougher still.

"Again, this cannot be. That leaves the third way."

Will stepped closer. The void behind him and the hounds — was it closing in? Was Will pulling it with him? The sense of unease in the pit of Hannibal's stomach was bubbling, churning with the bitterness of the absurd statements that had issued from Will into something bordering on rage.

"Such is... life," Will said, with a dreamy, strange emphasis on the last word. "Maybe then, the third way is yours."

"What is the third way?" Hannibal asked, quick and impatient.

Will's lips upturned into a smile. He reached into the folds of his cloak.

"I think you already know."

Moonlight glinted off the object retrieved from Will's cloak. Will extended it to Hannibal with both hands.

Hannibal stared at it, utterly silent. It was—

"Your thimble."

Hannibal reached for it with shaking hands, disbelieving. The same sewing thimble he'd used to feed Will. It fit neatly in his palms. It was as large as a chalice.

He let it fall to the ground with a dull thud. He spun back on his heel and looked about wildly. His blood ran cold. The vast army of glowing pumpkins had closed ranks behind him and each one of them loomed — _loomed_ — over him, huge as houses. The path behind him had closed.

"Will. What have you done?" he rasped.

Will's beguiling expression hadn't budged. Calm, still as a moonlit pond. Clouded as he was with rage, Hannibal couldn't look away. "Didn't I warn you to leave me?" Will said, but his tone was light. Merry.

"I followed you here. I wanted to help you."

Will merely grinned: it was a moon-lit grin, and the moon glinted in his eyes. "Yes. To care for me."  
  
"To care for you. Yes." Hannibal said hoarsely and then he lunged, desperately. Knife out, hand on Will's throat and rage, fear, want, all as big as the void that called him.

The hounds leapt for him at once, jumping, shrieking and snarling with alarm. Will raised a hand to keep them at bay. They obeyed and retreated.

"You did help me," he said to Hannibal, so close and quiet and intimate. "All the blood you've shed through the years, the men and women you killed — did you not know? It beckoned to me. The sweetest song I ever heard. So I looked for you. Every year—" he pointed up to the moon and laughed sweetly. "I found you at last. And now I can't leave without you."

Hannibal's grip on the knife shook. _Hannibal_ shook. He felt the tip of the blade split the black cloak and push against Will's skin. He gritted his teeth.

"The blood of the man I bathed you in—"

As if a knife weren't being held to his stomach, Will's arms wound about Hannibal and pulled him close. His mouth softened into a smile that coiled about Hannibal's heart.

"The blood was our bond. And your claim to my consort's throne. Come with me." Will's eyes shone, brighter than any light. He held Hannibal tighter. "Come rule with me," he whispered softly.

The knife fell from Hannibal's hand. He clung to Will and let himself into the heart of his fear. Tears streamed thick from his eyes. There was no going back now. The void was rising, coming, sweeping around them like a cyclone of undiluted darkness. It swallowed up the moon, the fields, the sky, it absorbed back the hounds that that had spawned from its depths, it churned up high into the air and devoured the countless soldiers of the pumpkin army.

Nothing was left. Nothing above, nothing below. Nothing, except Hannibal and Will.

Clasped together, they drifted in a void.

Then came the light. And Hannibal knew he was home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY Finally finished the bastard. Happy Super-moon, fannibals. I couldn't think of a better night to finish this story.


End file.
